Fly fishing from the fringe of sanity.

Un Párrafo Mal Escrito Sobre El Sol

A good southern sun is one of the few times when man understands the nurturing life gifted our planet. As the pleasant beam washes over a frigid face, one can almost understand the why the old gods lasted for so many millenia. Conversely, the sun during summer bears fiercely on your skin directly overhead, hating your every visible move and punishing it with divine intensity. Searing the sky with the wrath of the entire cosmos yet still breathing hotly inches from your neck. One is kind, reassuring, the soft brush of a soulmate’s hand against your cheek. The other is spiteful, vengeful; a thousand fiery nuns punishing you with a thousand fiery rulers. Ten thousand if you are made of Irish blood.

There are few sensations as perfect as a soft winter sun drifting southern in the sky; it’s my favorite indulgence when winter visits.